#this was the time he stopped caring for others not after Hosea's death and in my opinion he never did cared - like Micah never did but talk

[henrycavillary]

[itsallgoodmann]

I'm going to act like I did not sob throughout the entirety of writing this story holy shit.

"Charles Knew that Love Existed Because Arthur was Love"

Desc: Arthur tells Charles about his condition and they both slowly realize they care a lot more about each other than they originally thought. Apparently loss can really strengthen emotions, especially unresolved ones.

(Heavily implied Charthur, comfort, angst, death, grief, mutual confession of love...You get the idea. Inspired by the fanart above (not mine obvs!))

"Hey Charles," Arthur sat down on the crate next to Charles, overlooking the main campfire. Charles gently rubbed gun oil on his sawed-off shotgun, thinking quietly to himself, like he always did.

"Arthur." Charles nodded at Arthur, glancing at him quickly before looking back at his gun. Arthur put his hands in his lap, clasped together tightly. He closed his eyes briefly, trying his best to gather his thoughts. He had known Charles for less than a year, but somehow Arthur felt more connected to him than Dutch.

Arthur didn't want to tell him. In fact, Arthur couldn't think of a thing he wanted to do less than tell Charles the truth...

Because he was dying. Famous gunslinger Arthur Morgan, taken by a goddamn lung disease. How ironic. Charles deserved to know, he had been so kind to Arthur. Arthur remembered the weeks after the O'Driscolls had kidnapped and shot him, and who stayed by his wagon the longest.

Not Dutch, not John, not even Hosea.

Charles.

"You shouldn't get up," Charles said bluntly, staring into Arthur's blue eyes, glazed over in a Morphine-filled daze. Arthur shook his head like he did every time someone told him not to do something. It didn't stop him from hoisting himself up so his head rested on the back of the wagon. Charles just shook his head, a small smile on his face.

"Swanson's Morphine is certainly doing its job," Charles muttered, mostly to himself, Arthur scoffed in return.

"Why you here anyways?" Arthur took a deep breath and tried not to wince at the stitches from the gunshot wound in his abdomen. Charles chuckled, a lighthearted noise that made Arthur smile...Even if it was mostly because of the Morphine.

"Just, watching... Got nothing better to do." Charles shrugged his shoulders and continued sharpening his knife next to Arthur's wagon.

"I think in the time you've been with us-" Arthur took a moment to think about what he was going to say, his words slightly slurred from the drugs.

"I've never heard you speak more than two sentences to anyone." Arthur shook his head, smiling. Charles rolled his eyes.

"I just don't have much to say, I guess." Charles shook his head, but couldn't help the smile that graced his face.

"Charles...Smith... The lone wolf... A man of few words." Arthur put his hands up and made a gesture like he was reading a newspaper headline.

"If I knew you were going to act like an idiot I wouldn't have given you the Morphine." Charles shot back, but he didn't take any offense. How could someone take offense to the ramblings of a Morphine drunk Arthur? Arthur acted like he had been shot (very fitting), giving Charles an exasperated look.

"The lone wolf does speak!" He said dramatically, drawling out the 'does' to annoy Charles even more.

"You should sleep Arthur," Charles finally said, putting away the knife and other sharpening materials.

"Y'know..." Arthur yawned, the euphoric sensation of the Morphine and the drowsiness that healing cost was really getting to him.

"I'm quite fond of you, Mr.Serious." Arthur slurred, moving his head down to the pillow and looking up. Charles studied Arthur's expression, trying to read his true emotions. Arthur's eyebrows were relaxed, his lips upturned in a lazy smile. He could see the crow's feet that appeared next to his eyes, and the scar that was on the bottom of his chin. Charles meant to ask about it, but never did.

"You've always been the hardest worker in camp," Arthur yawned again, and Charles shushed him.

"Go to sleep Arthur, for god's sake."

"Somethin' on your mind?" Charles' deep voice brought Arthur out of his thoughts, and Arthur nodded. Charles looked at him, narrowing his eyes a little bit. Charles must have had an inkling of what Arthur wanted to speak about. He was quiet, but he wasn't stupid. At this point, no one could deny Arthur looked sick...Real sick. His collarbones were sticking out from his pale splotchy skin, his clothes were now bagged around him. His eyes were bloodshot, and when he ate there was a large coughing fit that followed.

The cough. It made Charles' ears ring, the violent shake of his chest, the crackled wheezes that followed. Charles saw the bloodstains on the inside of Arthur's sleeve.

"You wanna ride with me?" Arthur blurted out, Charles took a second but nodded.

"Always." He said curtly. Charles walked with Arthur over to his horse, before he mounted Taima. Arthur led the way to the outskirts of Annesburg, before riding aimlessly towards the mountains surrounding the Wapiti Indian Reservation.

"Yer a smart man Charles," Arthur started, taking in short breaths, thinking hard about how to word things. This did nothing but make Charles nervous.

"Arthur," Charles said in almost a warning, like he was afraid Arthur was going to beat around the bush and never get to the point. Charles didn't like it when people weren't straightforward. However, Arthur was the only exception to this rule. The only noises that accompanied them through the ride were the clopping of hooves on rock, and the rushing of water from the nearby Dakota River.

"If things go bad, you get yourself out of there, alright?" Arthur coughed but tried to stifle it, which only made it worse.

Charles wanted to get off his horse and punch Arthur in the face. Not because he was angry at Arthur...

But because he was scared. Charles Smith, the fearless lone wolf. It wasn't like Charles hadn't experienced loss before, hell, in the last few months it was constant... Davey, Sean, Kieran, Hosea, Lenny, Molly... Charles was sad, of course, but life went on. The sun still shone the next day, the coffee was still brewed like normal, and the songbirds still chirped their melodies.

"You got... More to lose." Arthur said, his voice softer, more vulnerable. Charles shook his head, immediately shooting back,

"No. Come on. Don't start talking like that." It was obvious though, even when Arthur explained it.

"I didn't tell you before," Arthur took in a wheezing breath.

"I saw a doctor."

Charles wanted to jump into the Dakota River and feel his entire body go numb from the cold. He wanted to push his hands to his ears and hum until he couldn't hear Arthur's words anymore because they cut like a knife. They made him bleed like no one had ever done before. Instead, Charles gripped the reins of Taima tighter, slowing down to a gentle trot.

"It's pretty bad, and it's gonna get worse."

Charles shook his head, but luckily Arthur didn't notice. He bit his lip and tried to make sense of it all.

"Take a left down this trail," Charles said softly, pointing to the slightly worn trail into the thick woods of the Cumberland forest. Charles led Arthur to a clearing, where a thick, lush layer of grass grew, and flowers erupted from the space.

"I don't remember much of my childhood," Charles said, dismounting his horse and motioning for Arthur to do the same. Arthur followed Charles into the clearing and they both sat down on a fallen log, covered in bright green moss.

"My mama though, she taught me all about the herbs..." Charles smiled gently, then motioned to the flowers. Arthur looked at him, confused.

"These are flowers..." Arthur corrected, Charles just shook his head and chuckled.

"She taught me about the flowers too, if you'd let me finish." Charles pointed to the flower with stems that held a few dozen tiny bundles of red flowers, with a bright yellow center.

"Blood flower," Charles said, Arthur nodded, listening intently. Charles then pointed at the other flower that covered the clearing, a stem that held a single, cupped, red flower.

"Field Poppy," Charles informed, Arthur could have probably guessed that, but just hearing Charles talk was enough. There were a few minutes of comfortable silence, the horses quietly grazing near them.

"Did the doctor say how long?" Charles was careful with his words, but he wanted...No, needed to know.

"A couple weeks, a couple months..." Arthur drawled, coughing again. This time the fit was so bad Arthur wheezed for breath afterward. Charles rubbed Arthur's back, hoping the contact would soothe something, even if it was just his soul.

"You're a good man, Arthur Morgan." Charles forced through gritted teeth, afraid if he said more he would have to wipe tears off his face. Arthur chuckled.

"I ain't a good man,"

Charles frowned, if only Arthur could see himself through Charles' gaze. The way he glowed, Arthur's soft smile and kind words. He acted tough, but he loved. Charles closed his eyes and took a deep breath, promising himself he wasn't going to break down.

"I'm only going to say this once, Arthur," Charles warned.

"You're one of the best men I know." Charles smiled bittersweetly like it should be obvious to Arthur.

"You're kind, hard-working, loyal, and smart." Charles removed his hand from Arthur's back, before resting it on his shoulder.

"Hell, you've probably saved my life countless times." Charles sighed, then made eye contact with Arthur. What a horrible choice. Icy blue eyes, bloodshot and tearstained, inflamed with the pain of the human condition. Charles stared back at Arthur with warm brown eyes, trying to keep his equanimity. He was normally very good at it, a skill he prided himself on, but this was different. At that moment, in the clearing, Charles realized something.

He was soft for Arthur Morgan. He wanted to see Arthur happy, he wanted to see him thrive. It took everything in Charles not to scream about how he loved Arthur Morgan... And, more importantly, how much he loved the way Arthur loved. Freely and fully. Arthur rarely shared by the campfire, but when he did it was always a story about saving a man who got bitten by a snake, or a woman who was stranded because her horse died.

"Yer' a good man Charles, one of the best." Arthur choked out, now trying to keep his own composure. Charles just smiled, it was all he could do. But Charles broke when Arthur made eye contact with him again, his face wet with the streams of hot tears that poured down his cheeks. It was instinct as he opened his arms for Arthur, hugging him tightly. In a useless wish, Charles thought about how he regretted not doing this earlier. Arthur clung to Charles and Charles clung just as much back. Arthur wrapped his arms around Charles, burying his head into Charles' chest. In a swift movement, Charles gently brought his hand up to the back of Arthur's head, his other arm wrapped securely around him. They both sat there for a good while, breathing in the scent of each other and trying to memorize the way their bodies fit so perfectly together.

"Shouldn't leave things unsaid, should I?" Arthur finally said, breaking the silence. Charles nodded, still holding Arthur close to his chest.

"Then I think I love you, Charles." Charles wasn't going to debate what exactly Arthur meant by this. Charles didn't care. He loved him back.

"I think I love you too, Arthur," Charles murmured, now gently carding his fingers through Arthur's hair.

"I always imagined you were a Bison," Arthur muttered softly, Charles nodded.

"Dutch told me I was like a buck... Unlikely friends." Arthur chuckled, but it ended in a painful cough that Charles tried his best to soothe.

"You think we'll meet in another life?" Arthur looked up at the sky, it was now dusk, and the stars were beginning to appear. Charles nodded,

"I hope so." Arthur smiled at the response, a real nice smile.

"Then I'll look forward to meeting you all over again." Arthur was always the best at bringing out even the most buried emotions. Charles froze, trying not to lose it. He didn't want Arthur to go. He can't let go. He was never able to let go, everything he ever lost is covered in claw marks from when he tried to make it stay. Charles choked back a sob, gently lifting Arthur's head to place a tender kiss on his forehead. Arthur's blue eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, every decision Arthur ever made had spun through his mind, all leading up to this one single exchange. Perhaps death wasn't going to be that bad. Charles brought both of his hands and cupped Arthur's jaw, looking at him, trying to memorize the face.

Charles knew that love existed because Arthur was love.

That's why, when Charles carried the limp, cold, body of Arthur Morgan down that mountain, one arm around his torso, the other around his leg, he made sure to stop by that clearing. He uprooted those flowers and planted them on his grave. It was the least he could do.

"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for Righteousness."

A/N- Woah! First fanfic on this account! Last time I regularly wrote fanfiction was when I was sixteen (I am in my twenties now). Couldn't get Charthur out of my head so I created this (it got very out of hand very fast). Unfortunately, I do not apologize for the amount of heartbreak this may cause you.

If you would like to leave a request, go for it! I am a full time college student, and I do work two jobs, so there's no telling if I'll ever get to it, but if it's a good enough request I'm sure I'll make time. It's weird to be so familiar yet unfamiliar with creating a fanfic post, but alas, I'll stop yapping. Hope you enjoyed the fic!

Fanart used can be found here, credit to conconarts!

[primasveraas-writing]

go gentle into that good night

Hosea outlives Arthur.

word count: 2087

warnings: major character death

---

Hosea’s joints protest when he sits back down; his shoulder and back in particular ache. But he ignores it, just as he’s done for many days prior, and settles in at Arthur’s bedside.

The other man attempts a smile at him. His lips are cracked and bloodstained. It’s a sorry sight; Arthur’s face is stained purple and yellow with bruises, and worse still are the signs of sickness that have refused to fade. Under the bruises, he’s sickly white. His eyes are blackened and red-rimmed and clouded with fever. Every inhale is a wheeze and Arthur shudders with pain on every exhale.

Hosea reaches out to his boy, wiping the sweat from Arthur’s face with a handkerchief. He tries to smile back.

“You don’t hafta…” Arthur whispers, and Hosea shakes his head.

“Stop that, Arthur. I’m going to take care of you.”

Three days ago, Arthur had directed him to a veteran’s homestead, not far off from camp. At first, Hosea had protested that he should go with Arthur or stay with Tilly and Jack, but the Marstons needed to flee far and even weeks after Guarma, Hosea could only manage to travel short distances. Arthur had pleaded with him, told him that Hamish would take care of him, and said that he’d find him soon. He’d been lying, Hosea knew, about that last part. But Arthur had begged between coughs, and he couldn’t deny that their family was finally beyond saving, so he’d gone. And when night fell, Arthur still hadn’t appeared.

Hosea had left Dutch to his madness. John was said to be dead; he’d left young Tilly and Jack behind. They’d parted with words of love, but he’d abandoned them to their fates nonetheless. Maybe the gunshot wound in his shoulder prevented him from holding a rifle, maybe he’d felt sapped of strength since returning to the mainland, but knowing this made the farewell no less painful. And in the early hours of the morning, Hosea decided he would not let his goodbye to Arthur be final. 

“It’s dangerous,” Hamish had warned. “The law’s been all over the area. Not to mention your own people running amok…”

“He’s my boy,” Hosea had said. His throat was oddly tight. “If he’s out there, I have to look for him.”

So he had. He started at Beaver Hollow to find dead Pinkertons and Susan Grimshaw staring sightlessly into the surrounding woods. It was some hollow, bare consolation that he hadn’t recognized any other bodies, but the weight in his gut had only deepened. After closing Susan’s eyes and whispering a soft farewell, Hosea continued on into the night. He wandered until he found more bodies; first of lawmen, then Arthur’s horse. 

He’d known then that what he discovered next would break whatever pieces remained of his heart. He’d climbed the mountain. And although the sight of Arthur’s ruined body on the rocks had indeed shattered him, when Hosea heard the rattle of his breath, something like hope warmed in his chest.

On the fourth morning, Arthur sits, propped up by pillows with Hosea in a chair next to him. He’s been awake for almost an entire hour. He doesn’t talk much, for if he does, then coughs will tear through him, and blood will dribble from his lips, and Hosea cannot stand to see that any more times than he already has. But Arthur is awake, obediently taking sips of water until he starts to cough and retches some of it up. When that happens, Hosea wraps his arms around Arthur’s shoulder and holds him while the fit passes, watching as blood and phlegm and bile spill from Arthur’s mouth. Then, when Arthur is done gasping for air, Hosea leans him back against the pillows with shaking arms. It takes several minutes for his breathing to return to its normal, trembling wheeze.

“Do you remember…” Arthur starts after Hosea has cleaned him up, and Hosea shushes him. But Arthur shakes his head and continues on, his voice a rasp. “We talked about how we wanted to be buried. D’you ‘member?”

“I remember,” Hosea says quietly. He takes Arthur’s hand in his own, stroking the back of it with his thumb. The skin is cracked and thin.

“Facin’ west,” Arthur murmurs. “Please, Hosea. Don’t want it any other way. Hamish’ll help you.”

“I’m not going to bury you, Arthur,” Hosea says, frowning at the man before him.

“Well somebody’s got to,” Arthur says, and he has the nerve to crack a smile. “I’m dyin’, Hosea. ‘s only a matter of time.”

“You’re going to get better, do you hear me?” Hosea’s voice cracks. “ I went back there to save you. And I have.”

“You have,” Arthur agrees. “But look at me.”

Hosea does. Arthur’s chest rises and falls unevenly. Each breath is shallow and pained; Hosea is sure that under the bandages wound around his chest are broken ribs, and underneath that, lungs ruined beyond repair. His right hand is broken; his face is swollen and flushed. Somehow, Hosea didn’t think it could get any worse than it had been when Arthur returned to them on the shores of Guarma. He’d been half delirious, exhausted, and gaunt. And the coughs had been awful. But now, looking down at Arthur, he knows it's far, far worse. This is not the man he knows, not even when that man had been at his hurt and sickest. This is the shell of a person who’d once been living.

“‘m sorry,” Arthur says. His eyes are still closed, but he squeezes Hosea’s hand. “Ain’t right to bury your child. I’m sorry, ‘sea.”

This is the worst pain he’s ever felt. With Bessie, it had felt like the ground had been swept out from under his feet, that he was drowning. With Arthur, it feels like the world is at an end, like even if he surfaces there will be no air to save him. With Bessie, he’d hated dawn for coming, but now Hosea cannot see a future without Arthur in which the sun still rises.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Hosea whispers, the words barely audible. Arthur doesn’t respond, lost to pain or sleep. Hosea bows his head, resting his forehead on their intertwined hands. 

Arthur slips deeper into fever that night, shivering against the cold despite the blankets covering him and the fire roaring in the hearth. It feels cruel. As if Arthur weren’t sick enough- and Hosea knows that Arthur’s body can’t take much more. There will be no fighting off this bout of illness.

Hosea tries to sleep when Arthur sleeps, although he’s afraid that Arthur will slip away without him realizing. He can’t tell which he dreads more- the prospect of holding Arthur’s hand as he breathes his last, or waking and finding him already gone. All he knows now is fear and grief as he watches Arthur die.

Moments of lucidity and consciousness are fleeting. Mostly, Arthur groans in pain or coughs. He’s no longer able to stomach the mouthfuls of broth Hosea spoons into his mouth. It’s quiet, aside from the ragged sounds of Arthur struggling to breathe, and impossibly lonely. 

Arthur is going to die.

There is nothing now that Hosea can do other than watch it happen.

He wishes they had more time. That Arthur felt just a little better, that they could have one last ride together, one last fishing trip. One more conversation that lasts more than a few minutes before Arthur falls asleep. He wishes they could talk about all that’s happened, about Dutch, about how John got away. About their hopes for the Marstons and the others who got out in time. He misses Arthur already.

In the end, he decides there are only two things worth telling. Before Arthur dies, Hosea only needs him to hear two things, and maybe then, he’ll be able to let Arthur go.

When Arthur wakes next, it’s because of a coughing fit that lasts for several minutes. As soon as it fades, Arthur slumps back, his eyes shutting. He hardly acknowledges Hosea when he wipes the blood and spit from his chin, and Hosea pauses.

“Arthur, wait,” he says suddenly, and Arthur’s eyes slowly open again. “Don’t go to sleep just yet, I need to tell you something.”

“What’s wrong?” Arthur wheezes, blinking the fatigue away. He tries to sit up, but Hosea sets his hands on his shoulders and pushes him back down. 

“Nothing’s wrong. I just-“ Hosea breathes in. “I need you to know, Arthur, that you are loved.”

“Hosea-”

“The way Dutch treated you weren’t right. It weren’t- weren’t the way a father should act. And I’m sorry if that made you feel as if you weren’t appreciated. But there’s people who care about you, son, and always will- me, John, Tilly, Abigail, Jack. I need you to know that.”

There’s a long pause. Something works its way across Arthur’s face- first, confusion, then something much different, something that reminds Hosea of when Arthur was small, still learning to trust them, still figuring out that he wouldn’t be left behind, that he was safe, that he had family. 

“I know, ‘sea,” Arthur breathes, and when his eyes close, a tear slips from under his eyelashes and runs down his cheek. 

Hosea wipes it away, and blinks back tears of his own. 

As Arthur sleeps, Hosea begins his second refrain, unsure of whether or not Arthur can actually hear him. But he speaks softly anyway, recounting each act of kindness he’d ever seen Arthur do. Rescuing John, taking Jack fishing, bringing the women coffee in the morning. The way he’d cared for his horses and for Copper. The way he’d spoken about Jack and Eliza, before it became too painful to recall. Taking Lenny under his wing, standing up for Molly before she’d died. Giving money to strangers on the street, helping anyone he came across who looked like they needed a hand.

“What’re you talkin’ about, old man?” Arthur mutters hours into it. His eyes are cracked open; he looks bleary and confused.

“You’re a good man, Arthur Morgan,” Hosea says. “And I know you don’t believe that. But I know it. I’ve seen it.”

Arthur shakes his head, but Hosea squeezes his hand, tight.

“You’re a good man,” he says again. “If you’re not going to die believing it, die knowing myself and a few others know it to be true.”

Arthur mumbles a protest, but he’s already being dragged back under by the fever and the exhaustion. Hosea doesn’t mind. He hopes that Arthur can rest.

He’s said his piece. Now, he prays that when Arthur goes, it’s gentle and quiet.

Arthur is conscious, but clearly in agony. He pants, thrashing in the bedsheets, and Hosea shushes him, smoothing the blankets down. 

“That’s alright son,” Hosea says quietly, pushing a sweaty clump of hair from Arthur’s forehead. “You’ve done good. You’ve fought long enough.”

Hosea clutches Arthur’s hand tighter. Once strong and nimble, his hand feels thin and frail in Hosea’s. His skin is clammy and cold.

“You rest now,” the older man continues. “I have you. It’s alright.”

Arthur’s eyes slowly open a minute later. He looks at Hosea, really looks at him- for the first time in days, there is no clouded confusion of the fever in his eyes. He’s covered in a sheen of sweat, his breaths coming in labored wheezes, and his face is gaunt. Heavy purple bags under his eyes stand out against his pale face, and he’s so weak he can’t turn his head. But his eyes are clear. There’s just a single moment, an instant, where their eyes meet- before Arthur’s eyelids flutter closed again and Hosea is left alone.

Hosea wakes to daylight creeping in through the window, flooding the small room of the cabin. The first sounds that register are birds chirping, and then that is drowned out by Arthur’s breathing, ragged inhales shaking his unconscious frame. There’s a rattle in his chest that’s worse than ever, and each exhale stutters.

There’s a weight in the center of Hosea’s chest, a gaping pit in his stomach that threatens to swallow him. 

“I love you son,” Hosea whispers, and he hopes that at this end, Arthur can hear him, or at least he knows the words are true. 

They stay like that, father and son, as the sun rises. And when Arthur breathes his last, he is not alone, and in his final moments before oblivion, he is loved. 

[alessiathepirate]

Red Dead Redemption 2

THE FINE JOYS OF TOBACCO: Sean MacGuire x fem!reader

Summary: She absolutely loved to go on missions with Sean - and no one else.

Notes: English isn't my first language. I apologize for any mistakes I may have made while I wrote this short story.

I'm currently playing RDR2 and Sean's death broke me beyond belief - this goofball grew on me more than I expected...

Warnings: the reader is Arthur's little sister; swearing, mentioned death and violence

●●●

The Grays' tobacco fields were on fire, their guards were shooting at them, yet she just laughed - the muscles in her cheeks started to hurt as she giggled on and on, while her knife did a fast job so the horses could finally be free.

Even if Arthur didn't want her to go with Sean, much less get into a shootout with him; she had to admit that she was having fun - a whole lot of it. Not like she'd ever tell her brother about it; or John, even Hosea - Arthur would give Sean a nice threat, while John would give her a hard time living it down as Hosea'd send her knowing looks.

"Hurry up, Sean!" she shouted as she mounted the dark horse, gently patting its neck to calm it down. "We gotta get out of here!"

"I'm coming, gimme a minute!"

Sean was hellbent on getting some cash out of the job, and she had to agree that looting the carriage wasn't such a bad idea -- that was, until a guard took a shot at them, scaring the poor other horse to death.

She dealt with the man easily, shooting him dead with the revolver Arthur had gifted her; the animal though was a whole other story.

The horse kicked the carriage, making Sean curse in frustration, and ran off into the forest before she had a chance to stop it from happening.

"Shit..." she cursed too, her smile finally fading.

In that moment Sean finished looking around too; and as he stood up, ready to jump and mount the other horse, he only met her gaze looking up at him apologetically. Then she just smiled and patted her horse's back right behind her back.

"Come on, MacGuire, don't choose this moment to suddenly become a gentleman." she said teasingly and after other guards started to run toward them, Sean finally jumped and sat behind her, his hands grabbing onto her waist.

She pulled the reins and the horse broke into a fast gallop, running straigth at the Grays.

"I hope you practiced your shooting." she laughed as she leaned forward to avoid a bullet. " 'Cause if we don't want them to follow us, you gonna have to kill them."

"Oh come on, I ain't that bad!" he argued as she made them avoid a bunch of burning tobaccos.

She scoffed. "Last time I saw you, you couldn't even shoot a beer bottle."

Sean wrapped his left arm around her waist completely, his chest pressing against her back to keep his balance as he looked back, aiming his gun at the guards.

He took a shot and someone screamed - then Sean began to laugh.

She turned back in disbelief only to see a dying man on the ground.

"I told ya I wasn't that bad!"

"Beginner's luck..." she joked as she pulled on the reins, taking a sharp left turn. "Now make sure they ain't following us, will you?"

They were riding for a while, making sure no Gray was after them. A few minutes later Sean put away his revolver and turned forward, resting his hands on her waist. She almost giggled at how careful he was to keep his touches proper and innocent, clearly not wanting her to tell Arthur about it - or the whole adventure in general.

She pulled on the reins after a while and they came to a halt. She couldn't see anyone hiding in the night, and no riders were coming after them.

She let out a chuckle. "I think we lost them."

"That we did."

"Quite a night." she continued, and even through her good mood her exhaustion was obvious.

"With quite a party." Sean added and she chuckled again.

"It would have been too easy without that." she said as she leaned back, resting against his chest.

Her sudden movements caused his hands to fall on her thighs and she shuddered from the touch. She looked up at him, her gaze still playful from the adrenaline-rush.

"I missed you, Sean. Camp was dull without you around." she smiled.

"Ah, I always knew you missed me the most." he grinned with fake overconfidence, and he pressed his fingertips into her side, making her jump a little and laugh out loud from tickling. "I heard they only gave you boring errands."

"Exactly." she pushed his hand off of her side. "Good shooting by the way, Arthur would be very proud."

"Oh Jesus, please don't tell him about the shooting..."

"Don't worry, MacGuire, I'm not an idiot." she grinned. "I need you in good shape if I wanna have fun around here."

"We'll have plenty of that, don't ya worry." he promised. "You wanna go back to camp?"

"With you and me sitting on the same horse?" she scoffed. "I thought you wanted to keep your head."

"You're right." Sean tickled her again and she had to hold onto the reins tightly to not fall off. "Then you wanna go to Rhodes? We can buy me a horse there."

"More like steal one." she joked.

"Or borrow one." Sean continued. "And we can also go to the saloon, have a few drinks... I bet it's been a while since you were in a saloon with good company."

"How right you are..." she smiled. "If you're paying, I'm going."

"Of course."

She continued to look up at him with a smile; the deep urge and all the butterflies in her stomach telling her the very same thing they had been telling her to do for weeks: kiss him you fool. She wanted to, so badly - especially after all the fun they had together, all the laughs he got out of her, all the smiles he managed to steal...

She wanted him to want her too - and the only thing that stopped her from grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and kissing him, was the fear of Arthur's reaction - and the rest of the gang's too.

Her heart missed a beat when Sean put a hand on her shoulder and leaned in, stealing a kiss both of them wanted ever since he first sneaked into town with her. It was slow, emotional, something she didn't expect from a goofball like Sean at all.

She felt herself blush as the kiss ended - and Sean seemed to realized he crossed the line he forbade himself to ever step over.

"Jesus, that English's gonna kill me..."

She couldn't hold back the laughter what broke out of her.

"He won't if we don't mention the shootout."

"He still might."

"You'll do fine." she giggled. "If you're lucky you might get away with only a threat."

Sean's smile meant that despite the fear of her brother in his stomach, he was actually glad he kissed her. More than glad - over the moon actually.

"That I can take."

Her lips curled upwards as she pulled on the reins, starting their journey toward Rhodes.

"So - you really missed me, huh?"

"Don't push your luck, MacGuire." she warned playfully.

"I won't, I won't." he promised, his arms wrapping themselves around her tightly. "I love you too much for that."

She thanked God for the night, because her cheeks turned red instantly - and Sean would have never let her live that down.

How lucky that bastard was that she loved him too, with her whole damn heart.

[verdemoun]

I love your au but can we have some angst?? How often do they cry??

oh boi i love angst

hosea cried learning about what happened to dutch. he didn't want to and he hated himself for it but he will always love dutch and it hurt knowing dutch became the very opposite of what he believed in. it devastated him in a way he didn't know he could feel grief anymore. much like how dutch was there for him when he mourned bessie, bessie had to be there for him when he mourned dutch or the sheer overwhelming depression might have killed him.

sean cries because he misses karen. in typical sean fashion he tries to pretend everything is okay but see post for details alcohol isn't enough to stop him crying over how much he misses karen. he doesn't cry over the gang so much because in a way he feels morbidly lucky for escaping seeing the gang fall apart. his death truly marked the end of the gang's golden era.

but you know what really fucked up the whole lot of them? going to a little field that used to be part of beecher's hope, all hyped up ready to be reunited with the powerhouse that is abigail marston nee roberts in the modern era equivalent of 1910 and instead, a tiny little girl still holding the teddy, stuffed squirrel her dad gave her appears out of thin air. the lost marston daughter, who died at aged 3, standing in front of them asking for her mom and dad

they try to tell her it's okay and she's safe but she doesn't know any of them. john never spoke softly about the gang, his family. he repressed it and tried to forget and as a result his daughter stares wide-eyed at the gang as terrifying as strangers. the gang literally faced with the fact john has been actively trying not to remember them.

sadie adler, who has not cried since the day the grief of losing her husband turned into rage, has to remove herself. abigail marston jr's nickname is addie as a direct nod to how much sadie adler helped the marstons build a new life. she held that little girl as an infant, and played with her as she grew into a toddler. she sobs because that little girl is so scared she doesn't recognize her auntie sadie and she can't even hold her to comfort her

arthur is able to convince addie marston she's safe by drawing her mama and dad and very gently explaining he's her dad's brother. he's her uncle arthur, who she's never met or heard stories about, but she doesn't need to be scared because her daddy will be there soon and uncle arthur's going to take care of her until then.

they manage to get her home and she almost immediately falls asleep still clutching her stuffed squirrel dressed as a cowboy.

arthur is fucking ruined. he isn't crying, he's weeping. it's the grief he felt all those years after losing isaac: losing a child. his brother lost a child and somewhere across time his brother is having to dig her grave alone and mourn her while she's safely tucked into arthur's bed. arthur has no way to tell him she's safe, she'll be protected and cared for until he's there because the canon era gang don't know the timewarp exists after death. he has no way to talk to him, to be there for him as someone who understands that grief. his little brother is as alone as arthur was when he went through mourning isaac and arthur can't do a damned thing about it because the cruelest irony of the timewarp is knowing what the surviving gang members are going through and not being able to do a damned thing to stop or change it.

charles has to cry silently, because he doesn't want arthur to hear and try to console him. he knows there is nothing he can do or say that will comfort arthur and that ruins him. even for those who escaped, those who lived a life after the VDLs, death still haunts them. there's nothing and no one to blame for addie marston dying at aged 3. she died of an unknown illness, like so many children in the early 20th century, and now they have to pretend they're okay for her sake and each other's sake.

[nexionswild]

IN WHICH you reminisce on the romantic time you've spent with arthur during the aftermath of his death.

includes: arthur morgan x reader [red dead redemption x dangerously yours]

content warning: angst, major character death, widowed!reader. [GN]

a/n: oh my god, i'm so sorry.. i don't know i felt a little silly today. hoping ya'll will enjoy it.

word count: 1, 094

You will look into the face of passersby.

Your mind went blank after Arthur's death, and ever since that day, you've been aimlessly wandering from city, how long has it been after his death? You barely know what time it is, you just knew it was around the afternoon since the sun refused to set yet. You've been thirsting for revenge, you've longed for the death of Micah and Dutch after they were the sole reason for the gang to fall out like that. But was it really worth it? You'd tell yourself, yes of course it is. But in the end, it brings no one back. It doesn't bring Susan back, or Lenny, or Hosea, or Arthur. Your beloved, Arthur.

The annoying yet hard working cowboy you've come to love from the very core of your heart. The cocky bastard who'd make fun of your sardonic personality, but essentially admiring your confidence and enthusiasm.

— hoping for something that will, for an instant..

You believed that somehow, in some miracle magic, that he came back to you. That he survived his attack, that he made it out alive and is just waiting for you somewhere safe and sound. Somewhere warm, where you'd picture him peacefully drinking a cup of coffee as he sat on the rocking chair by a fireplace. But each time you looked into the eyes of a stranger or when you stopped to take a good look at someone, it wasn't him. He never returned. He will never return. You just couldn't accept it.

Bring me back to you.

You couldn't believe how incredibly lonely you felt each night you spent on your own, you couldn't even get to prepare your camping correctly because of how your hands were shaking in nothing but pure emotional agony, you were devoid of all comfort and joy. The only time you felt some kind of positive emotion was when John invited you to his wedding with Abigail for celebration, but you couldn't help and think to yourself: if he had more time, would we be married? Would we be dancing the way John sways with Abigail? Would we share our drinks and taste each other's food?

The lack of noises, the sounds of the crickets and animals of all species ruffling and jumping around your area were the only noises that filled that aching silence. Not the sound of laughter, or bottles clinking, or Javier's songs with the melody of his guitar in the back as he sang.

You will find moonlight nights strangely empty because..

And each time you'd think about Arthur, his name escaped your quivering lips, dry from how you've been dehydrating yourself and concealed any type of self-care treatment. You were miserable, beat up like an old dog. You wanted him back.

"Arthur."

Your voice echoed in the empty valleys that you've been camping in for quite a while. But nothing made you cry more than the awful silence of your environment, and it only made you bring your knees up to your face, embracing your legs with your arms as you dug your head in between them.

Passersby would've heard your sobs and sniffles, but you made sure you were quiet enough not to be spotted by anyone.

When you call my name through them, there will be no answer.

You missed the way he touched you so lovingly, as if you were his world, and all his care bestowed upon you made you feel special than any person in this god forsaken country. The idea of his cuddles would put your throbbing heart at ease as you thought about it, the way his muscular arms would keep you warm the way the campfire would make you melt like a puddle of lava. You missed how he'd teasingly press his lips against yours as a hum resonated through your intimacy, or how he'd land a few pecks on the nape of your neck before eventually leaving in the intention of gaining money, whether it'd be through bounty hunting, debt collecting or robbery. You didn't mind his wrong-doings, to you he was a good man.

He was a good man because he loved you like you were the only woman in the world, and he stared at you with those beautiful blue eyes of his, admiring your beauty and smile. He was a good man, because all he's ever known is the life of an outlaw and his gang, he was simply the consequence of growing up in a bad environment. He wasn't perfect, but he was the perfect amount of imperfect. And when he made you understand that you'd certainly be doing a mistake loving all over him, a little voice in your told you he may not be wrong. And he wasn't wrong. Not because of the way he treated you, but because he's plaguing your mind and thoughts like a disease. He's spreading all over you to the point where you'd feel body tense and your fingers getting numb.

He's the cowboy you love, oh so much.

Always your heart will be aching for me.

And while you've been traveling with no objectives or not purpose, you could only reminisce about those long roads you and Arthur had taken together. Then, you think about the time he told you to leave him while he would've been on his own against a bunch of your enemies.

He knew the outcome if you swooped in, trying to be heroic. He'd lost so much, he didn't want to lose you, and for his sake, you only ran because he told you to.

He told you to go and don't look back, yet you keep making the grievous mistake of always looking back, in hopes of seeing him. You can't stop looking back, because that's all you know. You only know how to remember and miss, you only relied on Arthur because he taught you everything you know, and now that you're left without guidance or a voice of reason, what else can you provide? How useful are you, now?

He's been reassuring you that you could be a use for something, and he kept including you in missions although you weren't a part of Dutch's plan, and now that he's gone, what are you? A sad widow?

And yet you still convince yourself that it was the right thing to do, because that's what Arthur wants you to think. That you did the right thing.

And your mind will give you the doubtful consolation that you did, a brave thing.

[thisisrigged4]

Charles and Faith Headcanons cuz I'm bored

The list is long and I didn't wanna inconvenience anyone but I'd love it if some people took a look! There are 39!

Faith fell first, and they both fell harder

Charles teaches Faith about hunting and Faith teaches Charles about fishing

Charles is the first man in camp Faith befriended, followed by Arthur, then Lenny, and John further down the line.

Charles's love language is Act's Of Service and Gifts

Faith's love language is Physical Touch and Acts Of Service

They spend time together without speaking, either sitting across from each other or next to each other with knees touching while they each focus on their own work. (Faith drawing and Charles crafting)

Charles is insanely protective without being overbearing

Faith is also very protective and worrisome

"You said you liked it so I got you 100 more"

Faith likes to paint near the horses and she always has a cup of hot coffee ready whenever she see's Charles coming back from camp guard duty.

Little gifts constantly being exchanged

Super Mild PDA and neither of them have issue showing affection to each other around camp, but nothing to to much

Charles will often put his hand on Faiths low back if they are hanging around camp or town together.

Rarely uses nicknames for one another but occasionally Faith will call him Charly, mostly as a joke.

Both are very confident flirts when alone

Charles is the first person in the gang that Faith opens up to about her past.

Faith knows how to make him smile even if its brief

Charles often when walking behind Faith with pull her back against him and kisses her on the temples/cheek.

She blushes overtime

Charles brings extra bait when they go out so Faith can have a better view and draw the animals

It took them a while to open up about their internal struggles

They rarely ever fight but when they do its because they care too much about the other.

Never really have to ask each other to do anything as they both are always paying attention to each others needs. Charles takes care of Faiths weapons and faith always makes sure he has supplies and things for crafting.

Neither of them let work get in the way of their relationship and are patient with one another.

Constantly trading knowledge and praising each other for learning new skills

Faith knows that Charles is a capable man but that doesn't stop her from worrying about him any time Arthur or Dutch call for him.

Charles reassures her that he will be alright and always comes straight for her tent whenever he had finished with whatever task/mission.

When Faith fell victim to Bill/Micah's Racism/Sexism, Charles was always the first to jump to her aid.

One day in Clemens point, Faith invites Charles to permanently stay in her tent after their relationship became more serious

No nonsense. They both say what they mean.

Faith initially disapproved of Charles and John's friendship but kept her opinion to herself. Later in Shady Belle does Faith begin to warm up to John after he finally tries with Jack and Abigail, earing Faith's respect.

The occasional camp get away where they set up their own camp near a lake or deep in the woods.

They both need their alone time, it's nothing negative they just need their time away from everyone and everything and they have no issue giving each other space when needed.

When asked in camp if they are together, They have no problems admitting to the relationship.

The only people to tease/ask about their relationship is Arthur and Karen. John later after Arthurs death.

Faith doesn't typically enjoy drawing people but she draws Charles often and the most.

She eventually attempts to draw Arthur, Hosea, Lenny, Sean and Kieran after their deaths.

Once Charles starts to pull away from the gang, Faith is insistent on her loyalty to him and if it became a choice between the gang and leaving with Charles, she would choose to leave with Charles.

Charles is a little confusing about the previous point as he had no intention of leaving Faith behind.

[saveahorse-ride-a-cowboy]

It’s been a long time, without you. Or has it? Arthur can’t even tell anymore. Sometimes days pass before he realizes. Sometimes just minutes. Either way, the group ain’t the same without you, and it bugs him to no end. Hadn’t been the same at all since that day.

And the thing he really hates? Dutch, Hosea, John- fuck, everybody and their mom looks at him with pity sometimes. Or their voices will get softer, gentler. Like he’s gonna break. When has he ever broke?

Other than those nights when camp is so silent without you by his side. He’d pay anything even to hear your god damn snorin’ again. Not that it was bad in the first place. More cute, really.

Everything about you was cute. And sexy. Every time you were around, Arthur could barely contain himself, could barely keep his hands off you. Now they anxiously shift on the reins of his horse or scratch at a loose string on his pants or somethin’. He has nobody to hold anymore. No soft skin to touch, no thick, gorgeous blonde hair to pull, no rosy cheek to caress or soft pink bottom lip to run his thumb over.

He may be a killer but that don’t mean he can’t pay attention to the details. And Jesus, did he pay attention with you. The love of his life.

His lifestyle has shown him loss since before he was an adult. But this… this one hurt. Hurt bad. It’s like he lost himself along with you. Lost his honor. His respect for the world around him. How could he care about anything when the one person he cared about most is missing from his life?

“I dunno what ‘m doin’ without ya,” he whispers to an old, slightly wrinkled photo of the two of you he keeps folded up in his jacket pocket. Tears burn his eyes and he shakes his head, taking a deep breath as he places the photo back into his pocket. “Dunno what ‘m doin’, darlin’. But ‘m gonna make you proud. Finish what we started. One god damn job at a time.”

He grabs his revolver and spins the barrel, making sure it’s fully loaded before slapping it into place and holstering it as he steps out of his tent.

“DUTCH.” He calls, giving the man a hat tip and moving over to his horse, who you named Chip. Short for Chocolate Chip, ‘cause of his dark color. “‘S go.” He mounts Chip and settles in his saddle as he gives the horse a pat. “Aye, boy.”

“Mr. Morgan?!” One of the women rushes over, and he practically holds in a sigh, looking down at her.

“Yes’m?”

“You have yourself a safe trip, now,” she begs, studying his face as if she’ll forget it. “You come back in one piece. That’s an order.”

An order from fuckin’ who? She ain’t in charge. “I’ll do ma best,” he nods to her and flicks the reins, giving Chip a gentle tap to the side with his heel before hurrying off after Dutch and Hosea.

One job at a time. Maybe one of ‘em will take him out and he’ll finally get to see you again. Wouldn’t that be a fine way to go?

Six months.

Six months following each stupid little trail from Strawberry all the way to Saint Denis. Someone heard of Dutch in the mountains, but another person heard of Arthur in the south. What the hell is my Morgan doing in the south? He’ll hate their manners.

It’s not until Annesburg that I get a truly good tip. O’Driscolls keep getting killed by Valentine. Almost as if it’s protected.

I remember Hosea telling me about this one place he likes to make camp when passing through the east and hurry outside, hitching my horse and taking off with my little cart attached behind us.

It’s another few weeks across the country, of camping outside next to the cart, ready to defend it to the death, but when I stop on a mountain and look down, I see… fire. A large camp. Jack. John and Abby are here and that means Arthur must be too.

I spur my horse down and quickly move through the woods that hide the camp. A perfect hiding spot, it seems.

“Little Jack?” I call as I get close so I don’t get shot by whoever’s on guard, “is that my favorite nephew I hear?” I get off my horse and lead him in by the reigns.

[wolint]

FRESH MANNA

SPIRITUAL PROSTITUTION

Jeremiah 3:1-11

Prostitution is called the "oldest profession” in the world. It was the most common way for women and previously some men to make money, even in Bible times. The Bible tells us that prostitution is immoral. Proverbs 23:27-28 says, "For a prostitute is a deep pit and a wayward wife is a narrow well. Like a bandit, she lies in wait, and multiplies the unfaithful among men."

Hosea 4:12 makes a graphic accusation against Israel: “My people inquire of a piece of wood, and their walking staff gives them oracles. A spirit of whoredom has led them astray, and they have left their God to play the whore.” Why would God say Israel had a spirit of whoredom (“spirit of prostitution,”? the same can be said of our generation and society today.

So many are prostituting themselves after other gods or jumping from church to church or denomination to denomination. What are they looking for? What are you looking for?

The narrative goes that Judah had separated from her husband, the Lord, and had been a harlot with many lovers, again, just like this age and generation and society. We, like Judah, are constantly unfaithful in marriage to the Lord and have no right to turn to Him or expect Him to return to us. Our unfaithfulness is evident in that the land is completely polluted with idols, and we sit as prostitutes by the roads as seen in Genesis 38:13-14, 20-21, this is the image of a cult prostitute. But God’s faithfulness to His word is greater than our unfaithfulness to Him, as Jeremiah later recorded God’s promise of Israel’s national restoration under the new covenant.

Morality and immorality are relational concepts that impact the way God feels about His people.

God is not the cold, emotionless and unfeeling judge sitting on His throne in the sky without feeling the pain of our constant straying and betrayal. God is personal, He feels our pains and laments our strays, but despite these, He is always eager to be reconciled to us and us to Him, unfaithful as we may be.

We have people church-crawling looking for “something” that I am not sure they even know what they are looking for. Or maybe they are looking for the “perfect church”, which unfortunately does not exist. Creating a culture of spiritual prostitution.

So many of us, like Judea have vacated our position as the bride of Christ to become brazen prostitutes.

Even though Judea made a pretend repentance, in verse 10, God the all-seeing God saw through their pretence, just like He sees our pretend piety and holiness.

God forbids involvement with prostitutes because He knows such involvement is detrimental to us as Proverbs 5:3-5 says, "For the lips of an immoral woman drip honey, And her mouth is smoother than oil; But in the end, she is bitter as wormwood, Sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death, Her steps lay hold of hell".

We must all take care that we don’t get so steep in spiritual prostitution that when we show up in church or Christian gatherings, we end up praising God with a rock heart.

Although prostitution is sinful, prostitutes are not beyond God’s scope of forgiveness. The record of Rahab in Joshua 2 shows us that God is willing to forgive anyone who repents.

Just like anyone else, prostitutes have the opportunity to receive salvation and eternal life from God, to be cleansed of all their unrighteousness and to be given a brand new life! All they must do is turn away from their sinful lifestyle and turn to the living God, whose grace and mercy are boundless. 2 Corinthians 5:17 puts it clearly and encouragingly for every returning spiritual prostitute.

We must learn to stay put with God and stop straying.

PRAYER: Father, help me to remain faithful to you as my only saviour and deliverer and not become a spiritual prostitute in Jesus’s name. Amen.

WOMEN OF LIGHT INT. PRAYER MIN.

[allzelemonz]

Warm Welcome: Micah Bell X Gender Neutral Reader

Pronouns: None Mentioned Physical Sex: None Mentioned Rating: T/Reference to sex Warnings: Micah Bell is his own warning, reunited, post-Guarma, mentions of cannon character deaths, confessions of love Summary: Micah is the first to find the group after Guarma and he’s been thinking about you for weeks.

When news hit that the robbery went bad you weren’t completely surprised. You and Sadie got everyone out of camp as quickly as possible, finding Charles and a new home. Sadie left a note behind, coded so only one of you would understand it. Between Abigail and Charles’ accounts of the job everyone pieces things together. Whispers circulate as people try to figure out why things really went wrong. Dutch, Javier, Micah, Bill, and Arthur are central parts of the group and are sorely missed. Getting the bodies of your fallen friends would have been much easier with the others here, but you manage.

Just as things really start to look bleak and people are starting to lose hope, you spot something in the distance. You’ve taken the late watch for the past few days, finding peace it it despite the creepy nature surrounding you. Nothing is ever there, nothing of note. But tonight there is a rider on the path. A lone rider coming into camp and you’re the only one awake.

You raise your rifle. “Who’s there?”

The rider stops a few yards from you, dismounting. “Now is that any way to greet your ol’ pal Micah?”

He walks into the light of the lanterns. It is, in fact, Micah. His face is sunburnt, his hair is dried out, and his clothes are ragged, but it’s Micah.

“You’re alive?” You say, lowering your rifle. “What happened?”

He sighs. “I was gone for weeks and all you got is questions?”

“Welcome back, Micah.” You say, mockingly. “Where the hell were you?”

“Ya really know how ta charm a fella.” He says, stepping closer. “We was stuck on an island, nearly died.”

“We found Lenny and Hosea, is everyone else okay?”

“They’re fine.” He clears his throat. “Ya know, cowpoke, all that time got me thinkin’.”

“Don’t you want to go see everyone?” You ask. “Nevermind, I know you don’t care.”

He chuckles. “There’s only one thing I been thinkin’ about since I washed up on that island.”

You shoulder your rifle, giving him a curious look. He steps forward, further into the light, and you can see more of his rough state. His shirt is halfway buttoned and the skin underneath is settling into a tan as the sunburn peels away. He looks worse than you’ve ever seen him.

“Jeez, Micah.” You sigh. “You okay?”

“I will be in a minute, Darlin’.”

He closes the gap between you and presses his lips to yours, his hands cupping your face and holding you in place. His lips are chapped, badly, and his hands are tough with calluses. He leans into the kiss, putting all of that pent up thought from his time on the island into it. He only lets you go once he needs to breathe, holding your forehead against his as you both take much needed breaths.

“That was a much better welcome, cowpoke.” He presses a short kiss to your lips and hums as he lets his hands fall to his sides.

“That’s all you could think about?”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he takes a few steps back. “Oh, I thought about plenty more, but we got time for all that later.”

It takes you a moment to collect your thoughts and refocus. “I’ll, uh, I’ll show you where they put your stuff.”

You turn and walk towards the main house, tip-toeing around the others to grab Micah’s bag and a cup of water. He takes the water from you first, chugging it with a sigh. You hand him the bag and he takes it, opening it right away to get at his hat which he places on his head.

“The washing barrel is around the corner.” You say. “You wanna see the others or do you still not care?”

He chuckles, digging through the bag for his usual clothes. “I’d much rather stay out here with you, Darlin’.”

A shiver goes through you. “Just don’t distract me from watch.”

He steps closer and presses his lips to yours again. “I ain’t promisin’ anything, darlin’.”

You steady your breath as he steps away and disappears around the corner towards the washing barrel. The relief finally comes over you, knowing that your friends are alive and on their way home. Things might finally get back on track.

[morlawny]

hi if ur requests r still open rn uh can u do headcanons of how the gang reacts to finding out the Reader is in a relationship with Arthur and Charles (separately) and what their thoughts are on it? (like if they think it’s cute, r surprised they’re a match, etc.)

also i love ur posts esp Morlawny since I never really thought abt it until now but I think it’s cute :-)

i'd love to answer this <3 not gonna do everyone since that'd take forever but i'll do a few! and thank you!! ;u; morlawny are my blorbos, i adore them.

dutch:

arthur: he's a bit surprised when he finds out you're with arthur, considering he hadn't seen the man with anyone since mary. he's happy for you both though!

charles: also a bit surprised, but not as much as he would be with you and arthur. thinks you two make a good couple!

hosea:

arthur: very very happy for his adopted son and you! he was very worried arthur would end up alone after mary, but you guys proved him wrong.

charles: pretty much like dutch; happy for you guys and think you two make a great couple.

grimshaw:

really could not care less for either, just hopes that you guys can help keep the camp running and not get too distracted by each other.

john:

arthur: "jesus christ, finally", which results in a smack in the head from arthur.

charles: a bit surprised at the match, but he can definitely see it.

sean:

endless teasing for both, and he will not stop, ever. even when arthur and charles both smack him several times and threaten death.

javier:

a bit like sean, but he doesn't mean it. he's happy for you guys regardless!

josiah:

arthur: secretly jealous (my morlawny bias i'm sorry), but tells you both he's happy for you! then goes to sulk for a bit.

charles: genuinely happy for you guys. a bit of light teasing, but he doesn't mean it.

[clareguilty]

Arthur Morgan/reader, desperate sex

Here is my second fic for kinktober! The next should be up on Wdnesday <3

Arthur Morgan/fem!reader | desperate sex, dominant Arthur Mentions of death and injury, mild angst. I made the cowboy cry. Rating: Explicit Word Count: ~2000

“Who goes there?” a gruff voice demanded as you rode up the trail to camp.

“It’s just me, Bill,” you called back, tipping your tattered hat.

“What the hell?!” He blinked and rubbed his eyes like he couldn’t believe you were right in front of him. “You’re alive?”

You grinned, opening your arms wide. “You can’t get rid of me that easy.”

He watched dumbfounded as you rode the rest of the way up to Horseshoe Overlook. You had been gone more than a few days, and your worst fear was that the gang would have packed up and left. The job had gone terribly -- so terribly you had been stranded and lost with no way back -- which was a good reason for the gang to move on to somewhere where the law didn’t know their faces.

But everything was exactly the same. People milled about, scrubbing or packing or chopping. Dutch’s gramophone played on, louder than a dynamite blast and seemingly never ending.

“What in god’s name?” Hosea took one look at you, bruised and battered and covered in every inch of wilderness you had hiked through trying to get back to camp.

“Glad to see y’all are still here.” You groaned in pain as you slid out of the saddle, smacking your ‘borrowed’ horse on the rump and pointing her back to the road. “Go on, girl. Find your way back home.”

The horse slowly headed back the way it came. Hosea was staring at you.

“I know,” you frowned. “I look terrible.”

“No,” Hosea waved his hand, shaking his head. “It’s not that -- though you do look like shit. We thought you were dead. We mourned you.”

It was your turn to look taken aback. “Dead? You gave up on me that quick?”

“Sweetheart.” He gripped your arm as if he was still trying to convince himself you were real. “You fell off a bridge. Those rapids… the rocks…” he trailed off.

You grimaced. “It certainly wasn’t my best performance.”

“There wasn’t any time to go back and look for you, but we weren’t even sure we would have found a body.” He looked ashamed. “We failed you.”

“No,” you took his hands in yours, squeezing. “You did what you had to do. I couldn’t bear it if you had lost someone trying to come back for me.”

Sean was walking by, bottle in hand. He did a double take when he saw you standing there, glanced at his bottle, and then back at you. “You mean Dutch gave that long fancy speech for nothing? You had better not die again.”

You laughed and shot him a wink. “I don’t plan on it.”

Sean seemed satisfied with that response. “Your man’s been a right mess since we lost you. Hopefully he quits moping around all the time now.”

“Arthur?” you glanced around. “Is he alright? Where is he?”

Sean shrugged. “Probably the same place he’s been for a week now.”

You turned to Hosea, desperate. “Where?”

“He’s been at his wagon mostly. I didn’t want him going out in the state he’s been in.”

His words only made you more worried. You had finally made it back to camp. All you had been able to think about -- the only thing on your mind as you clawed your way out that ravine and stumbled through the woods -- was that you had to get back to him. You couldn’t leave him. “Is he hurt? Did something happen?”

Hosea didn’t get the chance to answer. Whispers of your arrival back at camp must have spread fast, because Mary-Beth was dragging Arthur by the arm to where you and Hosea were standing.

“Arthur.” You were running -- as fast as you could move with all your injuries and exhaustion. He finally saw you, freezing in place and staring in disbelief.

You slammed into his chest, flinging your arms around him.

He hesitated before returning your embrace, leaning in to bury his face in the crook of your neck. The two of you stood there for a long while as you sniffled into his chest. Arthur held you tightly, as if you would disappear if he let go.

“Isn’t this sweet,” a familiar booming voice rang out. “Glad to see you alive and well, dear.” You didn’t even turn to look at Dutch. Not when Arthur was clinging to you.

The ground disappeared beneath your feet and you found yourself hoisted over Arthur’s shoulder. The crowd that had gathered around the two of you dispersed as he stalked across camp. The world flipped right side up again as Arthur sat you on his horse, swinging into the saddle behind you and taking off at a full gallop.

You made it to Valentine in record time. The ride was harsh and agitated your injuries, but you didn’t mind with Arthur at your back. He helped you down to the ground and practically carried you inside the hotel, slamming the door open. “A room for me and my wife, please,” he demanded.

The hotel clerk handed over the key. You clung to Arthur the whole way up the stairs, nuzzling against him and just glad to be near him again.

The lock clicked behind you and Arthur… changed. His embrace became more insistent. His eyes darkened. The edge of the bed hit the backs of your knees and Arthur laid you down. It was gentle, but he pressed you into the bed, climbing over you. “Where are you hurt?” he asked.

“It’s not too bad-” you tried to play it off.

He cut you off. “Where. Are. You. Hurt.”

It was terrifying, but thrilling. You shivered under his intense gaze. “My hip,” you grabbed one of his hands and gently lay his palm over your hip. “Makes walking and riding hard.”

He nodded. Clearly waiting for you to continue. “My back is pretty messed up, and my shoulder.”

He noticed the rips and tears in your shirt. All the places you had scraped or torn. His hands went to the buttons, lifting you carefully so he could get you out of the sleeves.

Your trousers were next, slowly pulled down over your hips. When you winced in pain, Arthur stopped to kiss you, cradling your face in his hands.

He stripped you down. His expression was pained as he took in the full extent of your injuries. You had fallen off of the rail bridge and gotten swept into the freezing rapids. The current slammed you into the rocks and swept you down the ravine before you washed up on the bank of the river. From there, it had been a grueling process of making your way out of the ravine and through the woods.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” you reassured him. Glancing down, you got a good look at just what he saw. “It does look pretty bad, though,” you frowned.

Arthur’s expression was hard to read. You wondered if he was disgusted by you. It would take a long time to heal, and you knew he might not want to look at you while you were so beat up and battered.

He nearly collapsed on top of you. Luckily, he knew to brace his weight. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, breaths ragged.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he gasped. “I didn’t know what I was going to do.”

You reached up to run your fingers through his hair. “I’m still here,” you promised. “Busted and bruised to hell, but I’m not gone yet, honey.”

He kissed his way along his jaw until he found your lips. It was perfect. You had missed him so much, so worried you would never make it back to him. But now you were here in his arms and kissing him. 

“I love you,” you said as soon as you caught your breath.

“I love you so much, darling.” He hovered his hands just above your skin, too scared to touch you.

You placed your hands over his and guided it to where you weren’t scraped or bruised. “Touch  me,” you begged.

He sighed as soon as he felt your skin against his palms, as if he just needed to know you were really there.

“I need you,” you tried to pull him against you, attempting to slot your hips together. “Please, Arthur.”

He hesitated. You could see the desire in his eyes, how badly he needed you, needed to feel you. But he didn’t want to hurt me. You would have to convince him.

“Arthur,” you grabbed the waistband of his pants. “I fell off a bridge and climbed out of a ravine and walked across half the damn state. I want you to fuck me, and I don’t care if it hurts.”

He seemed dazed, but lust clearly won out as you tried to slide your hand under his shirt. He was undressed in seconds, kissing his way over your neck and unable to keep his hands off you.

The pain was bearable, and you were too distracted with the warmth of Arthur’s skin under your hands. You couldn’t get enough of him, so glad to be near to him after all of those cold nights in the wild. 

He was impatient, desperate. He wanted all of you at once, and he didn’t know where to start. Now that you had given permission, he wasn’t afraid to take what he needed. And take he did. He sucked a mark into your collarbone before kissing down to your chest. You gasped as his lips found your breasts, teeth scraping along the skin.

“Please,” you rocked your hips.

He got the message, gently pressing your thighs apart so he could stroke your clit. It felt so good. The stretch when he slipped two fingers inside made you cry out. You sighed and pulled him closer, winding your fingers in his hair as he pulled moans and gasps from your lips.

“That’s it,” he said. “Good girl. I wanna hear you.” He doubled his efforts, determined to make you come around his fingers.

You pulled him up for a searing kiss, biting his lip as you came. “Fuck me,” you breathed.

He was just as needy, cock hard and aching against your hips. He grabbed your less injured leg and hooked it around his hip, dragging his cock against your slit. The teasing was going to drive you mad, but luckily he was just as impatient. He sank into you with one slow motion.

He hissed a curse against your skin, lost in the feeling of you around his cock. “God, darling. Need you so bad.”

He didn’t even try to start slow, setting a quick, frantic pace as soon as he began to move. His fingers dug into the bruises on your skin, but you didn’t mind the pain. It only reminded you that Arthur was there, that you had made it home to him.

You were so close, clinging to each other so desperately. You couldn’t imagine what Arthur had been through the past several days. He had truly believed you were gone, he had been in mourning. While you were focused on not getting eaten by wildlife, he was grieving your death.

It made sense why he couldn’t keep his hands off of you, why he sighed so deeply every time his hips met yours. The way he drank the taste of your lips as if he could never get his fill. You gave him everything you could.

The two of you went three rounds that night, fighting through your exhaustion in a desire to be close to one another. You fell asleep wrapped in each other's arms, curled together on the rickety hotel bed.

“I can’t stop seeing it,” he whispered, unable to take his eyes off you. “The sight of you falling off that bridge, the way you just disappeared. It’s kept me awake every night.”

You can see it. The dark circles under his eyes, how haggard and underfed he looks. You can only imagine how broken up he must have been.

“Not tonight,” you leaned in to kiss his cheek. “You have me here, safe and sound.”

[kirain]

I started playing rdr2 but stopped because like idk but I can't seem to get over the fact that all the women are prostitutes and they don't really have any important roles. Like what's Abigail do? Ooh she's a mother who's always mad? What do the other women do? Oooh they sleep with the gang. What's Sadie do? Oooh she becomes a badly written femme fetale who suddenly becomes a flawless killer. The women are just so badly represented.

I get the feeling you didn't play the game naturally or see any random encounters, because none of what you said is true. There's a lot to unpack here, so let's start with the "all the women are prostitutes" comment.

First of all, none of the women are prostitutes, a fact that deeply irritates Micah. During a coach robbery where he rides with Arthur and Bill, he even says, “Why the hell do we need a gaggle of girls who won’t even fuck you if you put a gun to their head? Is it too much to ask considering they get a piece of every damn dollar I bring in?” Poor baby. He even tries to proposition all of the women (Grimshaw included), but they all insult him and send him running with his tail between his legs. It’s hilarious and I love it. Arthur also responds to Micah with, “Everyone does their share. I don’t see you lifting a finger around camp.”

Now a bit about the girls:

Mary-Beth was a skilled pickpocket, but she ended up being caught by a group of her victims. She mentions this during a conversation with Arthur, where she points out how hard it was for women who came from nothing, and the inequality of it all. RDR2 actually regularly highlights how difficult frontier/outlaw life was for women back then, often pulling zero punches. While fleeing her pursuers, Mary-Beth luckily ran into Hosea, who helped her escape and welcomed her to the gang. You can see Dutch lusting after her a few times, because he's an old pervert, but she always shuns his advances. She was never a prostitute and she was actually underage when she joined.

Tilly was a child outlaw and a member of the Forman gang from the age of twelve. She ended up killing the leader's cousin because he [as is heavily implied] tried to rape her. She was around sixteen at the time and tried to return to her mother after the ordeal, but she unfortunately passed away while Tilly was running with the Formans. Out of options, she eventually joined the van der Linde gang after Dutch saved her from some unspecified trouble. You can find most of this out during one of my favourite side missions, where she gets kidnapped by Anthony Foreman in retaliation for killing his cousin. With Grimshaw’s help, you can rescue Tilly and put an end to it once and for all. She was never a prostitute and was also underage when taken in.

Susan Grimshaw was one of the original members of the gang and one of Dutch's first lovers. They parted amicably and both fell in love with other people (Dutch with Annabelle, and Susan with a doctor who sadly ended up dying), but she stayed with the gang because of their mutual respect for each other. She later became the arbiter of the camp and a kind of surrogate mother to Arthur, John, and the other girls. She was never a prostitute, but rather a rough-and-tumble outlaw.

Karen is a little more complicated. Overall, she was a scam artist (Hosea even called her an “actress”) who sometimes lured men into brothels, then stole from them or picked their brains for leads. That doesn't necessarily mean she was a prostitute; however, it just means she used sex as a manipulation tactic. Out of all the women in the group, she was the freest and most unconventional. She also stood on guard duty and participated in heists. The only man she ever slept with in game was Sean, and his death absolutely devastated her. If you talk to her or observe her interactions, you also discover she’s a raging alcoholic suffering from some very deep-seated issues. She likely did have to do things she wasn’t proud of in order to survive, but in my opinion that makes her one of the most realistic members of the group. She was never described as a prostitute.

Molly was an aristocrat who left her family to be with Dutch. His abusive treatment eventually led her to suffer an identity crisis, where she ended up hysterical and heartbroken. Her story is sad, but she was never a prostitute. If anything, Molly is the best example we have that Dutch views people as items, not human beings.

Abigail is the only prostitute in the game, but by the events of RDR2 she's an ex-prostitute. To say she's nothing more than "a mother who's always mad", I feel, does her character a great disservice. First of all, she left that profession behind to raise her son, to give him a decent chance in life. Unlike John, she stepped up immediately to become a responsible adult. I don't think people realise how impressive that is because, one, she could've easily abandoned Jack at the roadside (which was common back then), two, she could've induced an abortion, and three, she was quite young when she had him; around nineteen years old.

You say the women are "poorly represented", but they're stronger, smarter, and more mature than most of the men. A few of them even become self-sufficient in the turn of the century, something dear old Dutch couldn't even do/accept. Abigail in particular helps Sadie mourn her husband and the two grow very close. Their interactions are both grounded and heartwarming, with Abigail telling Sadie she’ll suffer the loss of her husband, but that it’ll get better if she keeps on living. She takes care of her, and Sadie later returns that kindness. These women are so full of quirks and humour and personality, I don’t know how you missed it.

As for Sadie ... where do I even begin? Badly written? Femme fatale? Flawless killer? Sadie is one of the best written characters. She's not flawless, she's exceptionally flawed, temperamental, and traumatised. It's never expressly stated, but it's implied at several points throughout the game that she was repeatedly assaulted while the O'Driscolls kept her captive. At first, she's petrified and miserable, to the point that all she does is cry and express suicidal ideation. Then, she gets angry. Very angry. Having nothing left to live for, her home and husband torn from her grasp, she throws herself headfirst into danger, which almost gets her killed on a number of occasions.

She's not a "flawless killer", she's a messy killer. She's not an expert death-dealer, and that's made evident from the start -- but she was a hunter who shared the workload with her husband, so it's not as if her skills just magically appeared. You do see how much it weighs on her, however, near the end of chapter six. If you help her kill the rest of the O'Driscolls, she laments what she's become because she thinks her husband would be horrified. She’s extremely complex and struggles between mourning and moving on.

I also can't help but laugh at the "femme fatale" accusation, because Sadie actually defeminises herself, which is understandable considering the hell she’s suffered. She even wears men's clothing, which wasn't illegal [anymore] back then, but it was openly frowned upon. Femme fatales use their beauty and sexuality to their advantage, ensnaring men with their feminine wiles. Sadie never does that and fights side-by-side with the boys. Interestingly enough, that's partially why Calamity Jane, an actual historical figure, garnered so much attention, because of how she behaved/dressed. It’s pretty clear to me that Rockstar might’ve used her as inspiration for Sadie. This was a real woman who lived from 1852 to 1903.

In addition, Sadie plays one of the most important roles, yet she does so without falling into the category of a Mary-Sue. She saves the gang and moves them to a new location when the Pinkertons attack Shady Belle. She hatches the plan that frees John from prison. She helps Arthur rescue Abigail after she gets kidnapped. She tracks down Micah and puts an end to his reign of terror. But most of what she does she accomplishes with a partner--Arthur or John--both of whom she respects immensely. No one, not even Arthur, does everything alone, and when they do there’s usually negative consequences. It's the camaraderie and shared experiences that make these characters successful, and aside from Charles and Hosea, I’d even argue that the women are more well-rounded and fleshed out than the men.

I gather from for comments that you didn't finish the game, so I hate to spoil it, but I kind of have to if you walked away with this mindset. The women of RDR2 are a force to be reckoned with.

[arthurmargon]

i think the death in rdr2 that tore me up the most, after arthur’s and hosea’s of course, is molly’s. the way her character was treated all throughout the game with almost as much antipathy and disdain as micah all because of the terrible predicament she was in (aka loving dutch) always made me feel sick for her.

imagine you’re this young, beautiful woman born and raised in wealth, enjoying the luxuries your life has to offer you but always feeling like you’re missing out on something. an excitement, a thrill, maybe even a little danger to your otherwise calm and predictable life.

you meet an older man who represents all of that and more. he’s a smooth-talker, a charmer; he can talk a deer out of a lion��s mouth. naturally, you’re attracted to this older, dangerous, charismatic man, and before you know it, you’ve traded in the comfort of your rich family for the never-ending thrill of being a wanted man’s sweetheart. it’s all so new and exciting, you’re having a rush of feelings you’ve never felt before, you’re being someone you’ve never been before, and it’s all amplified by your love for a man unlike anyone you’ve ever known before. you’re not directly involved in his crimes, but you’re the one he comes home to, the one he claims as his in front of all his henchmen. you’re in another position of prestige and high regard, the last box to check off your list of wants in life.

but it grows old. slowly and surely, you get tired of the ever-looming danger. you get tired of moving around, of sleeping in a tent when all your life you’ve had a bed and your very own room. you get tired of the same bland meals, so far and few in between. you get tired of worrying sick over your lover whenever he goes out and there’s no guarantee he’ll ever come back. mostly, you get tired of the loneliness you feel even though you’re stuck in camps surrounded by a dozen other people of similar backgrounds who think you’re too uppity for them, who dislike you openly. they very quickly give up on understanding you. and sure, you do think you’re better than them, but after all these years, couldn’t they learn to accept that that’s just who you are? your lover certainly thinks he’s better than everyone else, why aren’t you allowed to?

and then you start feeling lonely in his presence. the one person you left everything behind for, the one person who’s been your light at the end of the tunnel as this lifestyle began rotting in your eyes like a bad apple… he stops caring for you. with time, he starts openly disliking you and isn’t the least bit shy about it. you yell and cry and plead, but he feels nothing for you anymore. he won’t spend time with you, won’t listen to you, won’t even touch you.

the gang all thinks it’s your fault. no one is there to lend you a helping hand or even give you the benefit of the doubt, to understand that you’ve lost everything.

and right as everything falls apart before you, not just your relationship but the very fabric of the life you’ve been living, you snap. you want to survive, you need to survive, and there’s nothing you can do. you have no money, no family, nowhere to go in this vast country you’ve only been in for a few years.

you say something you don’t really mean in the heat of the moment, in a frantic, desperate attempt at self-preservation.

and you get shot in the stomach for it. not even by your lover, though he certainly seems eager to put an end to your life himself. and no one cares. most people express relief over your murder, most believe you deserved to die like this. no one liked you, no one cared about you, least of all the man for who you gave up everything.

your body isn’t even given back to the earth. they don’t think you deserve a grave. your corpse is set ablaze, like a pile of soiled clothes, whatever remains left of it is scattered in a forest for animals to disappear. the man you love doesn’t even blink. he’s relieved to finally be rid of you, he’s glad you’re gone—everyone is.

tell me that isn’t one of the most fucking heartbreaking lives you could ever imagine. molly didn’t deserve it, not one bit. she may not have been the kindest, friendliest person, but she was practically cursed. to be in love with a man as cold, remorseless and self-absorbed as dutch is a curse all on its own, regardless of who you are.

[bluebellhairpin]

Arthur Morgan X Reader

A/N: It’s only taken me a year to write something for my most favorite cowboy ever so hopefully it turns out good. - Nemo

Summary: Tension in the Van de Linde camp had been a long time coming. When that tension turns to a division at Beaver Hollow, you make your choice to stand with Arthur. For better - or worse. 

Warnings: Gore, Guns, and Blood. Character death. Language. Angst with no happy ending. Spoilers for the game, if you haven’t played yet. 

Listening to: ‘The Chain’ by Fleetwood Mac - “I can still hear you saying you would never break the chain.” 

Masterlist || Ko-fi || Event Masterlist

You’d known Arthur Morgan for a very long time. 

The both of you were very young when you’d been picked up by Hosea and Dutch, evidently joining the small, growing Van der Linde gang. 

Life of an outlaw wasn’t easy, and the times you wanted to give it up and go hide yourself away in some cabin were more than you could count on your fingers. But you stayed. These people were your family, your friends. You wouldn’t give up on them, no matter how difficult some of them made it to stay. 

But the person that kept you with the Van der Linde gang the most, was Arthur. It was always Arthur. Sure, others nestled into the care of your heart - Ms Grimshaw, Marybeth, Lenny, Abigail and little Jack - but he took up residence in that space long ago. 

Lately, though, that single tie keeping you with the gang was straining. Not because of Arthur himself, not really, but because tensions were rising in camp. People started disagreeing with the leadership - though never mentioned aloud - and everyone was so tired. 

Dutch said he had a plan, but even you were starting to wonder if he ever had one to begin with. No matter where you went, trouble followed. Laying low barely kept you safe for a few weeks - let alone long enough to gather enough money for Dutch to believe it was enough. 

Would it ever be enough?

With everyone pitching in - thefts; robberies on banks, coaches, trains, homesteads; hunting; errands; actual honest work - money should’ve been flowing into camp. But it wasn’t. You were never safe enough, and there was never enough time. Time was one thing Dutch kept seeking more of. 

Time, money and faith. 

But your faith was wearing paper-thin. 

Blackwater felt like the last straw, but it turned out to be the first part of the last straw. You didn’t know what you were waiting for, you were practically itching to leave it all behind, to actually start anew - without everyone else - but something always stopped you from following through. 

Loyalty, perhaps.

It surely was not Dutch’s speeches. 

But then more people died, and the wedge in the camp’s division pushed in further. It became clear some people wanted to leave - yourself included - while others kept belief in Dutch. For you, the turning point was the Saint Denis bank robbery. 

It went awfully wrong, and led to not just Lenny dying, but Hosea too. Once news returned to camp about the historical failure, Sadie sprung into action with Charles and moved everyone away from Shady Belle, but you decided to simply move away. You’d spoken to Charles before you left, leaving word with him about what to tell Arthur when - or if - he returned. What to do if he came back. 

Eventually they did come back, and Charles sent word to you about the return of the lost men. Guama they’d been, and returned acting different. Strange. The concept and idea of someone betraying the gang was on Dutch’s mind, and a finger was pointed at you when he returned and found you missing. Arthur, as kind-hearted as he denied being, was one who defended you, and after the Pinkerton attack on their camp you were no longer under question. 

You didn’t even know where their camp would’ve been to send the agents to. 

Word travelled to you continuously, bless Charles, and so you found out about the gang’s second move to Beaver Hollow. When word stopped, that’s when you got worried. Was Charles okay? Was the gang okay? 

So you packed a bag and left. To go back. You were met with your old friends, old family, hoping to find good news, but instead found them pointing guns at each other. 

“What the hell are you fools doing?” you yelled, walking cautiously towards the group. “I know you all have your differences but we’ve never gone about shooting each other for it.” 

“And you’d know? You left!” 

And so guns were pointed at you. As quickly as they all turned, they all scattered. In your confusion, you simply followed your gut. So you followed Arthur. 

“I’ve killed for you, Arthur. I’ve killed protecting you.'' You said, “If you think I’m going to stop doing that because you want to be a hero and send both of us away then you’re wrong. I’d do anything for you, and that includes staying here. Right now, you need me more than John does.” 

“Then you're sick.” he said, “No, insane, that’s what you are.”

“Yeah I’m insane. You’ve taken all the sickness for yourself. Look at you Arthur, barely standing on your own - say how fast do you think you’d react if Micah pulled a fast one on you, huh?” 

You could tell Arthur was trying to block out your arguing, wanting you to leave with John rather than stay, barely paying you any attention until you mentioned his draw skill. 

“Are you doubting me?” he asked, turning from the rocks to you. 

“Yes.” you said, bowing your head in earnest, “And that doubt will continue until this is over, or you drop dead. I’d rather it be the former than the latter, which is why I’m staying with you.” 

“No, you ain’t.”

“You can’t stop me!” 

“You’re gonna get both of us killed.”

“The only way I'm going down is if they get me in my sleep, and I don’t intend on sleeping for a long while yet.” You turned away to reload your revolver. “So quit acting heroic, be a sad bastard for once, and stop arguing with me about this.”  

“I’ve always been a sad bastard.” You smiled at him.

“No, you ain’t.” 

You’d never seen so many Pinkertons in one place before. You’d never killed so many before either. The whole stand-off/fight was going rather well in your opinion, all things considered. 

All up until you got shot. 

Once on your front.

Once in the back. 

You stumbled back, tripping over your own feet. The first thing you saw when you turned to fall was Micah lunging at Arthur. Then gravity kicked in, pushing you over the cliff face and down onto the ledge below. 

Half the reason Arthur was holding so well in this gunfight was because of you, in a fistfight in this sick state he’d die. You knew that much. Even with the burning in your chest, ribs - heart - and the warmth seeping onto your shirt, you knew that Arthur would be a dead man without your help. 

You’d started a long walk - but no that was too painful - a long crawl back to where Arthur was, only for both him and Micah to tumble down to the ledge, not five feet away from where you first landed. Leaning up against the rocks, you fumbled at your side for your gun, only to realize you’d dropped it back before you fell. 

You had no way to help unless you got in and made a nuisance of yourself. 

Ironic. 

Micah always said you were more trouble that you were worth. 

Watching them tussle, you reached down, wincing at the stretch of your wounds, and pulled a knife from your boot. If you aimed right, you could throw it at Micah and give Arthur the chance he needed. 

You could feel the energy drain from your body with every drop of blood that stopped running through your veins. If you didn’t act soon you’d be too weak to get in a good enough throw. So you pushed off the wall, standing straight, took in a deep breath, and threw the blade right into the side of Micah’s right thigh. 

It didn’t stick, but went through with a clean cut. A viable enough distraction for Arthur to break away and sock his opposition right in the jaw. 

Unable to see past the blurring of your own eyes, you sunk to the floor, legs turning as weak as twigs under your own weight. You clutched your front, legs kicking out in front of you, and your head nodded down so you could watch yourself bleed out between your fingers. 

You could barely tell what was going on anymore, with such a heavy head and your ears starting to feel like they’d been stuffed with cotton, and everything was feeling too hot. You only shifted after you saw someone approach you, giving you a wide berth to move towards the two men. 

“Enough.” He said. It was Dutch. “That’s enough.” 

You’d have spat on him if you could. It had been enough a long time ago. Nothing he could say could reverse what had been done. Stopping this feud now was practically pointless. It wouldn’t give him his money, or bring anyone back from the dead. 

You hoped, as he walked away without a glance at you, that he’d never forget this day. That if you died here and now, that you’d get the chance to haunt him. Even if only for a short while, before you went to burn in hell. 

A hand landed on your leg.

“Arthur,” you started softly.

“Don’t talk,” he rasped, coughing as he pulled himself to lay next to you. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Says you.” 

“I knew you was a fool, staying.” He said, finally settled. “Didn’t think you was so big of a fool to get yourself shot. Twice.” 

“I knew I was.” Both your voices were getting weaker. Quieter. You were both on the precipice of death and you both knew it. 

“How?”

“I knew if it wasn’t Father Time, that got me, I’d end up dying for you, Arthur.” you turned, taking in his beaten and sickly face. “I may not have known it, but I guess I’d vowed a long time ago, to stick to you, ‘till death do we part.” 

“You deserved better than this.” You let go of your wounded stomach, taking his hand in yours and holding onto it with all the might you had left. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize sooner. I’m so, so sorry.” 

“I’m not.” you said. “There's few things I’d change, about how I lived my life, but sticking to you, Arthur, ain’t one of them.” You heard his breathing go shallow, even though his hold on your hand tightened. 

A moment's silence passed, and he shifted his head to look past you instead of at you. Now too weak to speak, his eyes told you to look instead. 

As you turned, your own eyes miraculously clearing one last time to let you see the rising sun, you felt his grip on your hand go slack. Cold fingers growing colder. 

You were tired. 

You’d known Arthur Morgan for a very long time, and the times you wanted to give up the life of an outlaw to go hide yourself away in some cabin were more than you could count on your fingers. 

But you stayed, because you didn’t really want that life. 

Not unless you had Arthur with you.

[julientel]

Favorite Uncharted hcs? Favorite RDR hcs?

watch me write a whole essay about brotherly love here

Sam and Nate (Uncharted 4):

- Before Sam came back from the "dead" whenever anyone tried to call Nate "Nathan" he just cut them off saying "Don't call me Nathan" because it always reminded him of his brother. Even now with Sam being alive and well, Nate still doesn't allow anyone do that because "Only my brother calls me that". (fun fact: that actually comes from Nolan himself, he literally said that in Uncharted 2 playthrough, and Sam calling Nate by his full name is from Troy, he was the one who came up with that idea)

- Sam is often worried sick when Nate is doing something potentially dangerous, but he hides that behind a smile and nervous laughter. He also knows too well that Nate has no regard for his personal safety

- The first few days after Sam came back Nate was unconsciously afraid to lose sight of him, like he was just a hallucination and could disappear. And that feeling came back from time to time and Nate couldn't keep himself from calling his brother every time he got too far.

- Sam actually wanted to tell Nate the truth about Rafe and Alcázar, but he thought Nate would hate him and leave him and come back to his real family. Sam didn't really feel like family after 15 years of being apart. He still loved his brother and wanted to protect him but Nate didn't need his protection any longer. And it wasn't something Sam could just brush off and turn into a joke. He felt alienated. And he thought that they needed to find Avery's treasure together to get back to the old times. To be family again.

Arthur and John (RDR2):

- When John left the gang, no one knew if he did that on purpose or he was killed somewhere and that was one of the main reasons Arthur was angry and didn't want to forgive him when he came back one year later. He was worried, John was stubborn and hard to handle but he was family. Just like Dutch and Hosea.

- Arthur began to realize he treated John to harshly only after Sean's death. Sean was like a brother to him, and John was also his brother and he'd hate to lose him like that too.

- When they were in Colter Arthur didn't want to go searching for John in the mountains. He kept reminding himself that he was angry and John was a traitor. But he also hoped he had enough luck to survive and was relieved to find him alive. In awful condition but still alive. 

- Later, when John was in prison, Arthur didn't even had a second thought before rescuing him. And for the first time in years he wrote something good about John in his journal. "I kinda like him".  High time to stop fooling yourself, Arthur, you did care about that boy.

- Eventually, Arthur got back to calling John "brother", John on the other side couldn't bring himself to it yet. He was grateful but he thought he didn't actually deserve it. 

- In the end "You are my brother" was John’s way of saying "I love you". Because for sure he loved his harsh and mean older brother who taught him everything. Who was a true family, loyal to the end. 

(okay, that was more like a summary not headcanons but whatever, I love those two too much)